Upset The Established Order
by Miss Yrbantisba
Summary: The story of how Dr. Harleen Quinzel became Harley Quinn. Obviously, JokerxHarley. Rated M for some dark elements.
1. Prologue

**A/n**: This is written in _Nolanverse_ using the DCU storyline of Harley Quinn and The Joker. Some creative liberties have been taken, but I attempted to keep as close to the original storyline as possible. This takes place after The Dark Knight, when The Joker is captured and put back in Arkham Asylum. **Review, thanks. )**

Harleen Quinzel had always appeared to be a perfectly normal young woman. Everything about her was average; she was of average height, average build, she had blue eyes, and blonde hair. She was raised in a perfect nuclear family, with her mother, father, older brother, and their dog. Harleen was an elite gymnast, and had been the captain of her high school cheerleading squad. She received good grades, and was granted a full ride to Gotham University based upon academics and her achievements as a gymnast.

Harleen, though, had always known she was different. It was only in a subtle, twisted way, but it was always there. She often wondered why she would look at a stranger on the street, and suddenly imagine herself taking a knife to his neck. She wondered why she wished to see his blood on her hands. Harleen was always fighting off thoughts such as these, but she found, quite honestly, that blood fascinated her.

Of course, she knew enough to never voice these desires aloud. She was scared of the reaction if people discovered she was so macabre. She did so want to continue being the perfect girl she knew she must be...

To staunch her sick desires, sometimes Harleen took to cutting herself; only very shallow, enough to see the blood run up from her thigh like water from a spring. She enjoyed the way it felt, slick on her hands. The smell of it intoxicated her, and the pain...the pain was the part she enjoyed most. It was the most honest emotion she had ever felt. Whenever she held these sessions in her bathroom, she would fantasize about the day when someone would come along who could understand and validate her nature. But she feared that day would never come...

Although Harleen was, indeed, a very beautiful girl, she was not very often courted. That is not to say she was never pursued; she was often pursued. But Harleen had never liked boys, she liked men.

During her time at Gotham University, she found that college level classes, especially as she moved on to graduate school, were much harder to maintain passing grades in than the ones in high school. Harleen took to sleeping with her male professors in order to maintain the appearance of competence. Harleen was not an innocent woman, not a naive girl. She knew very well that her ambition could make her rich and famous; she decided very early on that she would profile Arkham Asylum's most disturbed criminals in a sensational book.

When, during her internship, Ms. Quinzel was assigned to counsel that criminal madman, The Joker, she knew this is what would make her book a hit. The Joker was her ticket to success.

Of course, that's where the mayhem began...


	2. Would I Lie To You?

Harleen Quinzel gracefully stalked down the empty, dimly-lit corridor. Her high heels made resounding clicking noises as she went, creating a rhythmic pattern. _Click, clop, click, clop. _As she walked, she held open the criminal and pyschiatric records of the madman who called himself 'The Joker'. He was a recent addition to Arkahm Asylum after having recently been caught by Batman, but there wasn't a Gotham citizen who didn't know of him.

Dr. Quinzel gazed upon his file with interest. Here was a man with no name, no matches on fingerprints, dental imprints, he had virtually no known associates, and yet he had demonstrated genius tactics and skill.

Harleen heard footsteps approaching from behind her. "Good evening, Doctor," she said politely. It was Dr. Robert Greene, the Chief of Medicine at Arkham Asylum.

"Good evening to you, Dr. Quinzel," he replied. Dr. Greene was a much older man, perhaps of about 55, yet he was very handsome. His once dark hair was now slightly peppered with white, and a few lines appeared on his face, but he was still charming. He also happened to be the man Harleen found it necessary to sleep with in order to obtain The Joker case. Only by doing something so drastic could an intern be granted such an important case. But Harleen did what she had to do, and she couldn't say that she didn't enjoy it.

"Where are you headed?" he asked, strutting alongside her importantly.

"It's my appointed time with The Joker," she said coyly, hoping that he remembered all she had done for him to receive such status.

"Ah, yes," he said, and she knew he was quite certainly remembering. She smiled. "Would you be opposed to a drink, afterwards?"

"Not at all," replied Harleen. Dr. Greene suddenly stopped her by the arm, and they stood still like that in the corridor for a moment. Then he gently backed her up against the wall, looking around to make sure no one else could see them. He placed a hand on her thigh, and ran it up her dress. Harleen groaned in reply.

"I'll see you tonight, sweetheart," he whispered in her ear with a chuckle. And he went down the adjacent corridor, leaving Harleen against the wall.

Dr. Quinzel cleared her throat and pushed her tight white dress back down to where it belonged. She crouched down and gathered up the folder which had fallen out of her hands during the encounter. As she did so, The Joker's mugshot was staring her in the face. There was a fleeting moment within her of something like adoration, but before she could completely notice it, it was gone from her.

She continued her walk towards the visitors area, where her session with The Joker would occur. Dr. Greene had thought it best that Harleen counsel The Joker from behind bulletproof glass, at least to start with. But Dr. Quinzel knew how she would earn the right to see The Joker face to face, but that was for a later time. For now she would take what she could get.

The white light in this area of the Asylum was almost blinding. It made Harleen's hair appear almost silver, and she squinted her eyes.

When The Joker was chaperoned in, Harleen was a bit...surprised. He advanced with slow, careful steps, his head tucked into his chest, hiding his face completely. His dingy blonde hair, still clinging onto some traces of green, hung down limply, swaying slightly with each step. In his orange jumpsuit, this man appeared so unassuming...although he still had not looked up.

He took a seat on the other side of the glass, the bright lights harsh on his form, his cuffed hands laid gently in his lap.

"Mr.-" Dr. Quinzel began, but before she could think of what to call this alleged madman, she was startled out of speech.

The Joker had slowly risen his head to look her in the eye, his greasy hair falling lifelessly around his ears, and some remaining stuck to his face. He looked perfectly ridiculous, like an incredible joke.

Harleen studied his face for a moment, noticing remnants of white paint which clung to his hairline and red lipstick which was left embedded deep in the cracks of his unnourished lips. Perfectly mad, perfect chaos, amazing, wonderful. Harleen had a hard time deciding just what he was, but she knew he was important. Then she allowed her eyes to wander, to where the scars were on both sides of his mouth, in his cheeks. She noticed the curve of his mouth-slash-scars widen into his dimples. He was smiling maniacally. He licked his lips and leaned forward with a jerk, putting his elbows upon the table and steepling his fingers.

"Horrendous, aren't they?" he asked with a deep, mocking tone, his eyes darting around at her face, hair, breasts, and the charts which lay before her upon the table. He chuckled. "You wanna know how I got 'em, Doc?"

The Doctor, as if awoken from a trance, regained focus on her eyes, and, finding that she couldn't stand their all-knowing stare for too long, looked back to her charts on the table. She shuffled them nervously.

"If that's how you'd like to begin, then yes. Tell me."

The Joker let out a mad chuckle and licked his lips jerkily. "It's funny, I've never told this story without holding a blade to someone's face." He cackled again. "But for you, Doc, I can make an exception."

"When I was a young boy, my mother abandoned me. Never mind why, because I'm not even sure that I know. I was taken to a Catholic orphanage. The nuns never did quite...like me. But nuns don't like anyone except God, do they? Anyway...when I was about 12 they planned a night at the church where people who were interested in adopting could come and meet the kids at the parish. It was sort of like an orphan show and tell." He laughed.

"Well, when the night was over and the gawkers had gone home, Sister Mary Ann took me aside. Now Sister Mary Ann was a particularly fierce parochial broad who frequently gave myself and the other boys a few good whacks with the paddle, but that was all. She believed in good hard discipline. She told me that she'd heard too many comments from my potential parents about how morose I looked, about how I was a sad looking child who ought to smile more. She told me that nobody would ever want me unless I got happy. I saw the knife _gleaming_ behind her back, but I didn't move."

Harleen stiffened. She could sense where this story was going, and she wasn't sure she wanted to hear the rest. The Joker probably sensed this too for he pressed ahead with a reckless, sadistic vigor.

"She brought the knife to my face and told me not to scream. The cold metal ripped and tore at the flesh of my young face. I didn't scream." He howled with laughter. "That's the funny thing! Now I'm _always_ smiling."

Dr. Quinzel knew enough to know that she should probably wipe the look of complete shock from her face, but she felt frozen. She did her best to take her expression back to neutral, but the man before her already knew he had unnerved her and that was all he needed.

"Is that true?" she finally asked him, attempting to sound removed from the situation, as would befit a professional in her field, although she sounded more concerned for the him from so long ago which he had described; the sad little boy in the orphanage.

"Of course it is, _babe_." He emphasized the word facetiously. "Look at this face," he said, putting his face uncomfortably close to the glass and pointing to his grinning countenance. "Would I lie to you?"


	3. Bow Down Before The One You Serve

"Well did you note him as a compulsive liar? This story is obviously false, my dear. He has a history of fabricating tales of how he received those scars."

"That wasn't in his file, Bob. I think he might have been telling the truth this time."

"Harleen, you musn't imagine yourself to be special to this man in any way. Why would he elect to tell you the truth when he's lied countless times about the very subject? He probably gave them to himself to use as a device to gain sympathy from people like you, darling. Don't be so naive." Bob took a sip of his brandy, swirling it a few times before doing so, giving him the appearance of sophistication.

Harleen narrowed her eyes at Dr. Greene. He was, while also charming and handsome, a chauvinist who was always demeaning her intellect. He smiled and grabbed her hand in his, stroking the back of it affectionately.

"Oh, dear, don't be like that. You know how I meant it. I'm just trying to help you be a better doctor, my love. I want the best for you."

He was full of shit, and Harleen knew it. But she didn't care. She knew what she was to him. She was a good lay, a supple young woman so different from his wife, who had grown older and more distant over the years.

Harleen wanted a meeting with The Joker, alone, without the glass between them. Knowing this, she took the doctor's hand and carefully guided it towards her bosom. She kissed him softly, and he suggested they move over to the couch. She consented and she spent hours ensuring her meeting with The Joker, trying not to dwell on him all the while. When it was over, she dreamt of laughter and young orphans, and blades shining in secret places...but she felt only excitement.

--

Dr. Qunizel was trying not to regret wanting to meet The Joker privately, without guards or glass. She sat in her office, drumming her fingers on her clipboard in nervous anticipation. There was a knock on the door.

"Come in," she said, standing. A guard opened the door, and stepped out of the way for the man behind him in the orange jumpsuit and handcuffs.

"I'll be outside if you need me," he said and suddenly Harleen was alone with The Joker. He was smiling of course; he usually was. But there was something particularly sarcastic about it and anyone who saw the smile knew it wasn't out of happiness, although The Joker might portray it that way.

"Hey there, Harls," he said, mocking affection by nudging her chin with his hand. The handcuffs jingling quietly when he did this. "I'm sorry. Can I call ya that? Or do you prefer Harleen? Or Doctor?" He didn't sound considerate at all, and she had a feeling that he would call her 'Harls' whether she approved of it or not.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "How do you know my first name?"

"Oh, I've done my homework, sweetcakes. The boys around here are quite fond of you. They say you're a real swell doctor." He began to pace the room, picking up the things on her desk at random.

She smiled in surprise. "Really?" she said, with a slightly childish air about it.

"No, but they love your caboose!" The Joker laughed loudly, pleased with his own cleverness.

Harleen made no reply and sat down in her chair across from the patient's couch. The Joker took a seat on the couch, but didn't lie down. She couldn't quite figure out why he was always the one asking questions. She resolved to get a handle on the situation immediately.

"Do you have any scars, Doc?"

"I'm sorry?" Dr. Quinzel was caught off guard, but the notion of getting a handle on the situation had completely gone from her head once she looked up at him. He licked his lips jerkily and furrowed his eyebrows.

"I asked...if you have any scars."

"Well, I-" Harleen thought of the scars which she knew existed on her thighs, put there by years of self-manipulation. She thought of showing him, she imagined he would understand and perhaps he would open up to her.

Harleen quickly shook herself from these thoughts. She was the doctor. He was meant to open up to her by means of therapy, not through shared illness. No, she wouldn't allow herself to think she was ill. She was nothing like him. They had nothing in common.

"A few scrapes on my knees from when I was a kid," she finally said, stiffening her spine and resuming a professional mindset. "Would you like to talk about _your_ scars?" she asked, readying her pen against her clipboard.

"You're lying, _babe_. You're like me, I can tell," he stood up now. Harleen's heart began pounding in her chest, but to her surprise, as he loomed towards her she did not call for the help which waited just outside the door. His hands were down by his legs, and by the time she saw the sharp letter opener glittering in his grasp, it was too late to react.

In a very swift and sudden movement, The Joker had Harleen backed as far as possible into the chair, the letter opener at her throat. His breath was hot on her face as he smiled at her blue eyes, wide with shock.

"You're very much like me, Harls. I can see that. Maybe not quite as clever. I wouldn't have left the letter opener out if I knew a madman was coming." The Joker chuckled softly. He spoke in a tone that was not evil or maniacal in any sense; he may as well have been talking about the weather for all his calmness.

"Now show me _your_ scars, Doctor," he said and at this point his voice took on a deeper, more serious tone.

Harleen made no reply, not wanting him to get the satisfaction but also, if only in the slightest, she enjoyed being this close to him. _From a purely clinical standpoint_, she reminded herself.

The Joker took the letter opener from her neck and brought it down to her ankle. She felt the sharp pressure on her skin, and wondered what he would do next.

"Tell me if I'm hot or cold, Doc," he said, and she realized he was still obsessing over where her scars existed.

Harleen still said nothing. She did this partially out of fear, and partially to get a reaction from him.

"Hot or cold!" he shouted in her ear, enraged at his lack of immediate control over her.

She whimpered, shocked by his sudden rise in volume. "Cold," she whispered faintly, closing her eyes. There was a very small portion of her which wondered why she didn't break for the door or call for help, but it was completely drowned out by her desire for this closeness with him, although she was still justifying it as clinical curiosity.

He raised the sharp point further up her leg to her knee, dragging it softly across the skin, scratching it but not quite breaking it.

Dr. Quinzel gathered more courage. This time he need not ask for a temperature. "Getting warmer," she said, although it almost came out as a moan.

"I'm glad you've decided to play my game, blondie. It's fun, right? Smile," he commanded. Harleen allowed a faint grin to appear on her red lips, and to her great surprise it wasn't one of falsehood. He raised the sharp point yet again, this time up her dress to the top of her thigh.

"I'm hot now, aren't I?" he asked her deviously, lifting the dress to reveal the shining white scars that she had accumulated over the years. Suddenly, Harleen felt a familiar pain in that region of her body. She recognized the sensation of being cut open and was, once again, surprised that she made no move to stop him.

"There. Another for your collection," he said, and he burst into insane laughter. He tossed the blood-stained letter opener across the room. Still, she made no attempts to escape, although she had given up wondering why. Harleen felt the blood running from the cut into the crevasse that her legs formed when they were pressed so tightly together with tension. It dribbled from between her knees slowly onto the floor.

The Joker suddenly gripped her hair up by the roots, and he looked at it intently. "A bottle blonde," he said disdainfully, viewing her dark roots as evidence of her falsehood. He licked his lips fervently and puckered them in thought.

"You're fake," he growled in her ear after a while, his voice low and menacing, his hand still painfully gripping at the base of her long blonde locks.

"You're fake like your hair, and this office, and this profession. You're not one of _them_. You're more like me than you know, _Harls_." He emphasized the last word sarcastically, as if he was daring her to correct his nickname. "And the sooner you realize that," he concluded, "the sooner we can put a smile on that face."


End file.
